


Through the Forests of Wheat

by sockablock



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Canon Backstory, Gen, Pre-Canon, So much angst, liam o brien why must you hurt us, oh man the angst, post-episode 18 things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-13
Updated: 2018-05-13
Packaged: 2019-05-06 00:31:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14630268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sockablock/pseuds/sockablock
Summary: Caleb is not afraid of fire.Hehatesit, but he is not afraid.What he does fear, is this:





	Through the Forests of Wheat

**Author's Note:**

> my keyboard slipped

Caleb is not afraid of fire. 

He _hates_ it, feels disgust crawl into his stomach and twist at his lungs every time he breathes the litany for a firebolt, whispers the hymn for burning hands. He loathes the crackle of flame that curls between his fingers like a heavy wind, wants to retch at the blackening of his own skin under searing heat, wants to rip the embers out of his bones and pour sand down his throat until his muscles forget, until he can’t speak the words, until the fires stop glowing and the smoke fades away and he can finally sit down and bury the ashes. 

He hates it, but he is not afraid.

What he does fear, is this:

Mother always smiles in the mornings, when she pulls the tattered curtain back and sees the sun peeking over the mountains in the distance. Father always puts his left boot on first, props his foot up on the chair closest to the door, always sheepishly wipes away the dirt when his wife gives him a reprimanding stare, always kisses her on the cheek and ruffles his son’s hair before heading to the fields. She will join him shortly, after making sure Caleb is dressed properly and knows his chores for the day. 

The town will wake as one, farmers emerging from their small wooden homes like ants from their nests, small, ruddy specks milling about the vast seas of golden grain in the acres outside of Rexxentrum, cutting down wheat or tending to herds or bundling the stalks, before winter sings the land to sleep. 

During the Harvest Close, there are candied nuts, ring-toss games, logging competitions, neighbors selling woolen hats, dried fruits, wooden rings. The blacksmith sets out a stall of weaponry and simple tools, a woman spreads her weaving across the fences, a man sells caramel apples—a rarity in these parts—to little children whose parents have given them hard-earned coppers to spend. 

What he does fear, is this:

One day, they are accepted into the academy, all three of them, despite everything pitted against them: the circumstances of their birth, their penniless families, their humble roots and insignificant upbringings. They are welcomed into the learned halls of Soltryce, with its tapestries of ivory and trimmings of gold and its endless libraries and alchemical laboratories and ancient legacies and arcane torch sconces which—to three children whose families were too poor to afford candles—were the sign that from now on, things would be different. They would make something of themselves.

He gets a papercut in the library, after nicking his finger on the parchment. He sighs, and dabs at the blood with his sleeve, still unused to a tunic that is pristine and white and easy to stain. Later, seated comfortably around the common room fireplace, his friends tell him he’s still the boy from Blumenthal, and he laughs and tells them they can make fun of him after they write their own dissertations on the arcane interactions of the Prime Material Plane and the Plane of Dreams. They tell him to go outside and get some sunlight.

And then, a year later, they are approached by one of their teachers, a member of the Cerberus Assembly, an old and revered sorcerer who has taken a shine to these three diamonds in the rough, who is offering to train them, in private, in his home in the country, to shape them into glorious mages who will keep the empire strong. 

At night, the cold still hangs onto his blood. He does not know what spells those were, but he does know now the punishment for mistakes. He cannot make any mistakes. He is too good to make mistakes. He must prove that he was worth the time and money his teacher spent to get him to this point. He is going to become something, and he cannot let his teacher down. He must become strong. He must become strong. 

There is no blood on his hands, because ashes do not bleed. When he finally stops shivering, there is a kind hand on his shoulder, that whispers pride and comfort into his ears. He has done a Service for the King. He has stopped a traitor from ruining the peace. He is a hero. He may not feel like it now, but he is a hero. He is a hero.

What he does fear, is this:

Mother and Father are revolutionaries. He heard it himself, crouched at the top of the stairs with his heart sinking and his body shaking and his eyes wide with betrayal. He knows what he needs to do. He _knows_ what he needs to do.

Firebolt is one of the simplest spells he knows. It is easy to whisper the words and to flick his fingers, it is easy to hit the cart and to nod at his teacher, it is easy to feel the congratulations from Astrid and the hand on his shoulder and it is easy to turn around and walk away and it is so easy until—

—until—

He is afraid of their glowing smiles. He is afraid of the way they wished for his success, of the letters they sent to him in his ivory tower, of their proud tears when he told them he was going to graduate soon, of their warm embraces and of their love.

He is afraid of the boy from Blumenthal, the golden child running through forests of wheat, so easily charming and blessedly skilled, so filled with delight and ready to seize the world, so talented at weaving arcana through the skies and breathing magic into air and speaking power into being.

He is afraid that he can never be what his parents wanted. He is afraid that they are gone forever. He is afraid of what he has done and who he has become and what he might do next.

But fire? 

It was never really about the fire.


End file.
